


the way you burn bright

by zenosungs (pastelkoma)



Series: enamoured. [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Han Jumin Has Feelings, Humor, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Sleepiness, Slow Dancing, Zen Is Flustered, they're rly cute, tw for food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25443640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelkoma/pseuds/zenosungs
Summary: “What are you—” Jumin begins to ask, stopping in the middle of his sentence when Zen starts hauling him to his feet.“You’re not allowed to justwatchme,” Zen says, throwing in a small glare for extra measure. “Now, come on.”Zen doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore, but he’s indulged himself enough recently so that this doesn’t seem out of the ordinary for them. It’s just another thing to tack onto the list of things he has done with Han Jumin:now,dancing with him in the morning in their pajamas, within the swirling scent of strawberries and pancakes, socked feet gliding along kitchen tile.(OR: The morning following the previous fic—includes strawberries and pancakes, conversations on the kitchen floor, and reluctant slow dancing on said kitchen floor.)
Relationships: Han Jumin/Zen | Ryu Hyun
Series: enamoured. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829872
Comments: 46
Kudos: 176





	the way you burn bright

**Author's Note:**

> !!DISCLAIMER!!  
> this is the second fic to my "enamoured."series!! i mean it can be read as a standalone fic but i recommend reading the first one, it has some friendship development + tooth-rottening fluff ;))) if you don't read the first one some things in here may not make sense, as this IS a series
> 
> that being said, sorry, no established relationship yet but they need development yk?? they can't go enemies to lovers THAT fast
> 
> uhh so what happens in this fic, you may ask? stuff! dancing! breakfast! but it shows where their relationship stands, and there's fluff. also zen is just stubbornly adorable and doesn't want to admit that he's enjoying jumin's company. jumin also tends to unintentionally fluster zen and is a lil shit aboutt it 
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> AH tw for food
> 
> also it's 5 a.m. as i post this so i'll proofread when i wake up :,)

.

.

.

.

.

It’s cold, he notices.

It’s _cold_ , which is odd, considering the fact that Zen can quite distinctly remember falling asleep enveloped with warmth. He can remember that, but what he can’t remember is the source of that warmth—everything is hazy, as it tends to be when waking up.

He begrudgingly cracks open his eyes despite his mind screaming at him for some more sleep. For a few long moments he finds himself staring at the wall, white paint chipping off that he makes a mental note to get fixed, and breathes. The blanket is half-hanging off the side of the bed, one of Zen’s legs exposed to the cold air; he probably has to get up soon because he needs to check his schedule, and make breakfast—

Zen blinks as the wafting scent of eggs and pancakes fills his senses.

 _Breakfast_. It smells like breakfast already, but who…

**_Jumin_** _._

Zen almost falls off the bed as the memories of last night start to come flooding back, filling every crevice of his mind. The rain, and his jacket, and hot chocolate, and _Jumin_. Jumin, who he held; Jumin, who he picked up in the storm; Jumin, who he—who he _cuddled_ _as they fell asleep._

This time, Zen really does fall off the bed. He barely manages to avoid knocking his head into the bedside dresser, but he does happen to make a pretty loud thud, the blanket sliding along with him and wrapping around his legs in the process. With a groan he simply stays put, nausea growing as he thought over last night’s events.

Oh, fuck. What was he _thinking?_

He cuddled his enemy (though he really can’t be called that anymore) on Zen’s own bed. It had to be the drowsiness of the night that forced him to do so, because surely he couldn’t have done that with a clear head, but his memories betray him. It happened. It happened, and Zen is going to have to deal with the consequences.

He could run away. Jump out the window. Or he could play dead in the closet, and when Jumin goes to get help, he can escape.

Zen stays sprawled on the floor, thinking over the pros and cons of his listed options, before the sound of approaching footsteps makes his blood run cold. 

_Hide!_ His mind screams, and Zen sort of screams along with it. In a hazed panic, he urges himself to wiggle under the bed, because he doesn’t have that much time but he could still manage to hide under there. Like a worm in all of its glory, Zen squirms and attempts to crawl under the bed, a mess of long limbs and blankets and—

“What are you doing?”

Zen freezes.

_Fuck. He caught me!_

“Nothing,” Zen says. Then, “Hiding?” he admits.

Hiding may not exactly be the correct word, because it was a disastrous attempt. Zen is halfway under his bed, lower body sticking out and tangled in his blankets, because he really couldn’t manage to wiggle under fast enough. Still a bit panicked, he considers his options again (continue to crawl? Get out and run away?) before Jumin makes a grunting kind of noise.

“You’re not doing very well at it.”

“Fuck off,” Zen curses, but his voice is weak, like he doesn’t have anything else to say. And, if he’s being honest with himself, he really doesn’t.

“This is an amusing sight,” Jumin says, voice deep and a bit tired, yet there’s a hint of mirth coloring it. “I recommend you get out from under there before the dust gets to you.”

“I’m allergic to stupid _cats_ , not dust,” Zen snaps, obliging anyway, albeit more reluctantly than he’d like. He scooches back, his upper body exiting from under the bed. Even when he’s completely exposed now he still remains facedown on the floor, not wanting to look at Jumin at all. “Don’t look at me.”

“I am not.”

“I can feel your gaze on me. Stop judging me,” he snaps again.

“Once more, I am not.”

Zen groans, kicking his legs childishly against the floor. What Jumin had said about the dust is sort of getting to him, and he can’t allow some dumb dust bunnies to ruin his complexion. For that reason, and definitely for that reason _only_ , he rolls over so he isn’t facedown anymore—he still refuses to look at Jumin, eyes fixated on the ceiling with obvious stubbornness.

“What do you _want?”_ Zen asks, annoyance tugging at his voice as his hands come up to rub at his face. It doesn’t really make sense to ask such a question, considering Zen is the one who took the jerk in, but then again. None of this makes any sense at all. 

“I don’t want anything. But I have made breakfast, so I suggest you eat it before it turns cold.”

Zen removes his hands from his face, just slightly. “Breakfast?” he pipes up. He had smelled it earlier, but this confirms that it wasn’t just his nose deceiving him. 

“Yes. Pancakes, eggs, and I saw some strawberries in your refrigerator so I sliced some and put them on the plate. There wasn’t much of a selection for me to choose from, but I suppose this will do.”

Zen sits up, shooting daggers at that dumb trust fund idiot. “I don’t live like you! I don’t load up on so many rich people groceries! And besides, I didn’t give you permission to walk around my place, so why were you rummaging around in _my_ refrigerator?”

“To make breakfast,” Jumin replies.

Zen groans again, shaking his head. “I _know_ that!” he wants to say another terrible retort, but the words get tangled in his throat once a thought enters his mind. Before he can stop himself, he voices it aloud, “Were you making breakfast just for me?”

He looks away just as Jumin narrows his eyes. “No. I made it because I must leave for work soon and I needed to eat a good meal before doing so.”

Zen flushes red as he hides his face even further with his hands, ashamed for making such a stupid assumption. _Of course he wasn’t making breakfast just for you, what were you thinking? This isn’t some domestic relationship, you stupid, stupid—_

“But I did take you into consideration. I did the best I could with whatever commoner ingredients you had stored in your kitchen,” Jumin says just as Zen is busying himself with practically dying of embarrassment. “...And I wanted to thank you for last night. I don’t think this is the best I can do as a thank you, but I must leave soon, so allow me to do just this for now.”

That makes Zen uncover his face a little bit, letting himself sneak a small glance at the other man. He’s leaning against the doorframe and staring right at Zen, still wearing that baby blue sweater, sweatpants still hanging off his figure. He’s _still wearing Zen’s clothes,_ not that he has much choice about it, but still. Still.

(Zen flushes again, in red-hot confusion this time, and hides once more.)

“Ah. The food is going cold,” Jumin says after an awkward beat of silence. “I sincerely hope this is enough for a small thank-you gift.”

“It’s… more than good,” Zen mutters quietly, avoiding Jumin’s penetrating gaze by averting his own to the floor. “And I told you last night that you don’t need to thank me.”

“I insist.”

“Stop being stubborn!” Zen snaps (Jumin always managed to make him snappy) as he whips his head to the black-haired man. “It’s fine, I already said so. And I need to do my morning routine, so the food might end up going cold anyway. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Do your morning routine after, then.”

“You say that like it’s so easy!” 

“Is it not?”

“You are impossible,” Zen sighs, admitting defeat. He almost decides to lie down on the floor again and just stay there until the black-haired bastard leaves him alone. 

(But he can’t ignore the warmth that burst in his belly when Jumin said he made him breakfast as a sign of his gratitude. He can’t ignore the way it almost makes him smile a little bit, but there isn’t any way in hell he would smile because of Han Jumin, _in front of_ Han Jumin.)

Zen blinks as Jumin steps forward, reaching a hand out so that it is outstretched in front of the albino’s face, an invitation. 

Now, Zen happens to naturally be observant, and so he finds himself studying Jumin’s hand; last night it had felt soft against his own, although being calloused and rough. It’s a bit pale but it looks as soft as it felt, and Zen wonders if it would feel the same if he were to hold it again in his own.

Zen, still avoiding Jumin’s lingering gaze, takes Jumin’s outstretched hand. The man hauls him up to his feet a bit roughly, but Zen has nothing to say. His hand tingles from where Jumin has held it, but even though Jumin’s hand left his as soon as it had come, the tingling still remains.

“Aren’t you going to do your morning routine?” Jumin questions, quirking an eyebrow at the albino. Zen noticed the way the other gently tugs the sleeves down to willingly create sweater paws, baby blue swallowing large hands, a change from when Jumin would pull the sleeves up last night so they don’t drape over his hands. For some reason it makes Zen’s mind malfunction a little bit, and causes him to kind of just stand in place. (Han Jumin in oversized clothing is a sight for sore eyes. His head is clearer now that it’s not an ungodly hour at night, and that doesn’t help.)

“Uh. I can wait,” Zen murmurs, eyebrows furrowing as he turns his head away from Jumin, because he’s definitely staring and the last thing he wants is to stare at that jerk. “Go on. I’ll follow.”

Jumin furrows his brows ever so slightly but he promptly turns on his heel, exiting the room.

Zen tags along, fingers combing through his hair because he didn’t want to have a disgusting bedhead in front of the guy (Jumin looks like a character from a movie, not seeming like a normal person who would wake up groggy). Of course, not that Zen cared about what the guy thought about him. He just likes to look presentable in front of anyone, that’s all. He didn’t _need_ validation of that from Han Jumin.

“So you’re not going to complete your morning routine?” Jumin asks, not bothering to turn around as they walk down to the kitchen.

Zen makes a little hmph noise, carding his fingers through silver hair tenderly. “No. I’ll just do it after since you used my groceries to make breakfast, so it’d be useless if that food went to waste.” He falls silent for a bit, then, “ _Why?_ Do I not look good or something because I haven’t done my morning routine? What are you trying to say, you jerk?”

Jumin only hums at Zen’s loud accusatory exclamation, putting a hand up and waving it dismissively. “No. You look just fine, for someone who has just woken up and fallen off of the bed and joined the dust under that bed. But you look fine.” 

(Okay. Maybe Zen didn’t _need_ validation from Han Jumin, but, admittedly, it was nice to receive some.)

“Yeah, yeah, I always look fine,” Zen grunts before running to catch up alongside Jumin. “And anyway, did you use my skincare products? Whose toothbrush did you even _use?_ It better not have been mine.”

“Those are questions that don’t need to be answered,” Jumin says, dismissive once more, ushering Zen to sit down at the table before the albino can yell at him again. “Here. I must get going soon, so eat up.”

Zen surveys the plate of food presented in front of him. “You’re going to wear the suit you had on last night? It’s been washed if you’re going to,” he mutters, poking at the eggs with a fork. It doesn’t look so bad. “Unless you have this rich kid thing to wear a new suit every day.”

“Not quite,” Jumin says, taking a small bite of his pancakes. He’s across from Zen, but neither of them attempt to make eye contact. Zen is trying not to, for it would definitely be awkward, however he’s not entirely sure if Jumin is avoiding his gaze on purpose or not. “I intend to go back to the penthouse for a quick change of clothes, then I’ll go to the C&R building.”

“Why can’t you have Jaehee bring a suit to the C&R building? Wouldn’t that be easier?” Zen speaks through a mouthful of pancakes, surprisingly pleased with the taste. “Why do you have to go to your penthouse and change there?”

“Because I do not want to show up to the building wearing these big commoner clothing.”

Zen seriously chokes, fist flying up to his mouth as he coughs. “ _H-Hey!_ ” he sputters, eyes watering, still managing to shoot a terrifying death glare at the man, whose expression remains indifferent. “Are you saying you don’t want to be seen in public with my clothes? What’s wrong with them? You’re the one that has a problem, always wearing those dumb suits!”

“You are correct about the first part, but I also don’t see a problem with me wearing suits all the time.”

 _This stupid, rude jerk._ “I hate you so much. You are so high-maintenance,” Zen grumbles, a bit of pancake still lodged in his throat. He gives another chesty cough before looking at Jumin. There’s a hint of a smirk playing on the idiot’s lips; Zen blinks, and it’s gone as soon as he sees it. “Fine. Hurry and eat so you can get the hell out of my lovely home. You’re _tainting_ it.”

“What a rude way to treat a guest,” Jumin scoffs, tilting his head to the side as he chews on a small portion of strawberries.

Zen averts his gaze, brows knitted together, but there’s no mistaking the small smile of amusement that tugs on the corners of Jumin’s lips. It’s not _fair_ —why does Jumin seem like he’s not thinking about whatever happened last night? Their skinship, the way they felt pressed against each other, tenderness saturating their every action, every single word that left their lips and penetrated the silence; was Zen overthinking it or did Jumin truly not care?

“Uh. Anyway. How are you feeling?” Zen asks, still refusing to meet Jumin’s gaze.

Jumin is silent for a quick moment, before he picks himself up. His reply is stiff. “A bit tired and aching, but I am otherwise fine. That’s all.”

Zen sighs inwardly—the guy is still as emotionally constipated as ever. Judging by his stiff response, he probably won’t want to talk about last night, because he’s Han Jumin and he’s determined in his earnest display that he doesn’t _know_ vulnerability. Even if Zen told him that’s it’s okay to be. And Zen would tell him that over and over again until it got through his thick skull.

Not right now, though. Right now, the air is lighthearted and no longer thick and draping and heavy with tears; the playfully teasing atmosphere is effervescent within the snap of the moment, and so Zen wants to latch onto that for as long as he can. For as long as he’s able to.

“You were out there for a long while,” Zen says, no longer eating as he continues to push his food around on the plate with his fork. “You sure you’re not going to get sick?”

“Are you worrying about me?” Jumin questions, probably not noticing the way Zen visibly stiffens and almost drops his fork. “If so, you don’t need to. My immune system can hold up quite well. Now…” Jumin squints at Zen’s half-empty plate, before his face drops noticeably. “You haven’t finished your food. Was it bad?”

 _Oh_. “It’s not!” Zen is quick to retaliate, quickly shoving a small bit of pancake into his mouth, chewing aggressively to demonstrate his point. He flashes a smile with cheeks stuffed full. “See? I’m eating it. It’s great for a rich guy who probably doesn’t know how to cook! And that’s a compliment if you weren’t sure.”

Jumin doesn’t reply; he merely stares at Zen as the albino continues to shovel food into his mouth. But, if you look hard enough, close enough, perhaps you would be able to see the small grin of pleasure that ever so slightly lifts the corners of his lips. Zen doesn’t _need_ to look hard enough, close enough—but he sees it, and that’s enough to make him take another bite of his food. And that’s enough to make the look on Jumin’s face brighten a lot more.

“Great. I must be ready to head to work now,” Jumin says once Zen has cleared his plate.

“You sure you can go? Like, you’re feeling entirely up to it?” (And Zen hates how much he sounds like he cares. Although he practically admitted it last night, maybe Jumin forgot. Oh, how he hopes Jumin forgot.)

“There isn’t an excuse for me not to go,” Jumin states, making it sound simple. 

It’s not simple. “Dude. Don’t strain yourself. You were, like, dying out there yesterday.”

“I was not. It doesn’t matter anyway. Driver Kim should be arriving quite soon; I’m going to run late if I don’t go ahead. I can wash the dishes quickly, though, since I am the one who cooked. It would only be right.”

“Jumin—”

“And I advise you to forget about last night. I apologize for having to put you through that. I’ll do more for you as a sign of my gratitude, but please forget that last night ever happened.”

_Forget that last night ever happened._

Sure, maybe Jumin may be ashamed of his vulnerability in front of Zen, but how can he expect the albino to forget the warmth that flickered between them? Or the hot chocolate with the extra marshmallows, or—or the way Zen held Jumin to his chest? How can Zen somehow forget all about that without there being an alteration within their friendship, something that was just beginning its bloom after spring showers?

“Jumin,” Zen starts, standing up just as the other man does. “I can’t just _forget_ about last night.”

“Well, I am going to, so I suggest you do the same.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Zen insists, because _hecan’tforget_ and he can’t let them go back to how things were before, because Zen cares about Jumin more than he used to hate him and he can’t somehow change that anytime soon. “I understand feeling ashamed but you don’t need to be, do you get that? You expressed your emotions and that’s _fine_. That’s _fine!_ ”

“Despite what you say, I don’t believe in your words,” Jumin says, the look on his face remaining indifferent as always. For a split second, Zen feels like an idiot for thinking that the guy would somehow change. “I am going to wash the dishes now. Excuse me.”

Zen wants to yell at him, wants to curse him for his stubbornness, but—

_Patiencepatiencepatience—_

(Lavender shampoo. The lingering scent of regret. A blue sweater soft against his shaky palms. The cascading of tears down moonbeam-embedded skin. Warmth.)

Everything is different now. Last night sparked the beginnings of something new for them. Maybe Jumin hasn’t accepted that, but Zen has—last night marked the start of long-lasting despisement melting into flowering friendship. The seeds have been planted; Zen doesn’t hate him with all of his guts anymore. 

He can’t have Jumin shutting this out and burying his emotions down again. Zen has seen the guy stripped of all his composure, spurred with tears, and so he can’t let Jumin go back to coping unhealthily by pushing everything down within the folds of himself. He can’t become emotionally distant again; maybe he didn’t have anyone else before, but Zen is here, even though he never thought he’d have to be put in this position.

Han Jumin does have a habit of bringing upon loads and loads of bullshit for Zen to deal with, though.

(This once, he can let it slide.)

“I don’t know if you’re aware of who you’re talking to,” Zen says as Jumin brings their plates over to the kitchen sink. The running faucet only makes Zen speak louder. “But I don’t take bullshit, _especially_ from you. Surprise, surprise, you called me last night and I’m here to support you. I’m not going to push you to tell me things or whatever, but that also doesn’t mean I’m going to let you push all of your emotions down like an idiot.”

“Emotions are useless,” Jumin deadpans, a weak retort as he continues to wash the dishes.

“Emotions are literally a part of us, and so that means they’re a part of you. You’re just... really constipated with them.”

“...What does that even mean? Constipated with my emotions?”

“I—Nevermind,” Zen mumbles under his breath. “What I’m saying is that it isn’t good for you to run _away_ from said emotions. I’ll help you.”

“I still believe this is a waste of your time and energy, but I suppose I cannot stop you,” Jumin sighs. “Although that doesn’t make you right. Last night was just a minor inconvenience and I apologize for you seeing me in such a state. It won’t happen again.”

“ _Jumin_. It’s time for you to stop putting all your emotions into bottles and keeping them locked away, alright?”

Jumin does that thing where he doesn’t reply, but Zen knows that he heard him.

“But I did not ask for that.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this either, but I care about you despite hating you at the same time. And I really, truly do not like you. Or, I dislike you a little less now, but that’s besides the point.”

“But why are you doing this? I don’t understand _why_ ,” Jumin says, and he sounds like he’s teetering on the verge of helplessness. Zen reaches out, fighting the urge to touch Jumin as a reflex to offer comfort; instead he recoils just as his fingers are about to brush against the other’s arm. 

Zen just looks away. “Because I’m willing to be your friend if you’re willing to be okay with that.”

Jumin turns the faucet off without a word. He gingerly wipes his hands on a piece of paper towel located next to the sink, before throwing it in the trash. Wordlessly, soundlessly, he crosses the kitchen to lean against the refrigerator; Zen’s eyes track his every move, anticipating a response.

Then, “Okay.”

Zen sighs in some form of relief. “Okay.”

“I still don’t understand why you feel the need to do this. And I do _not_ bottle up my emotions. They’re simply unnecessary,” Jumin says. “But… if you really believe otherwise, then I can respect that. Though I still don’t understand what you mean by the term ‘emotionally constipated’.”

Zen actually laughs. Small and warm, a noise hidden behind the back of his hand.“That’s fine.”

“Yeah.”

They stand in silence for a little longer; Zen has learned that a conversation with Jumin is oftentimes accompanied by lurking quietness, but the natural kind. The kind that lusciously fills the empty spaces that words can’t. The kind that makes Zen want to talk more—the kind that makes Zen want to talk more to Jumin.

“So,” Zen says. He feels like he should say more but he doesn’t know what to say. “Um. You have to go to the office, don’t you?”

Jumin is fiddling with a loose string on the end of the sweater sleeve, in an almost endearing way. “I lied a little. Driver Kim won’t be here for another while. Your conversation that you were trying to strike up was just bothersome.”

“Wow,” Zen murmurs, but he can’t even find it in him to be (or sound) offended. More so, there’s just burning relief—terribly unprecedented—lighting a fire in his stomach. Jumin is going to be staying a bit more. It feels like taboo to be this relieved over it but Zen has been feeling a lot less lonely with the dude around, as much as he wouldn’t appreciate professing. “So. Lavender shampoo?”

Jumin noticeably stiffens from where he’s still leaning against the refrigerator. “What.”

Zen snickers slightly, joining Jumin by leaning against the counter. “Lavender shampoo?” he repeats again.

This time Jumin flushes easily, the apples of his cheeks dusted with blooming roses, probably from mortification if nothing else. It’s another thing that Zen doesn’t want to find endearing. (But he does. With Jumin, he keeps figuring new things out. It’s scary, but not in a bad way.)

“It smells nice,” is Jumin’s prompt reply. 

There’s no mistaking that. Jumin’s soft hair smelled like lavender fresh in bloom, tinged with the gentle remnants of rainwater. Nice was an understatement—Zen’s hair, in all of its green apple beauty, could not compare. “Okay, well. You’re right about that.”

“Huh. That’s interesting, though. So while you had your arms around me and I was falling asleep, you were busy smelling my hair?” Jumin questions, making Zen’s eyes widen to the size of golf balls.

This time, it’s Zen’s turn to go flustered. “ _No!_ Your head placement was just there, and your head happened to be right where my nose had easy access to! I’m not a creep who was just inhaling your hair smell the entire night!” Zen exclaims, a fist reaching out and lightly brushing against the other’s upper arm. 

Jumin pays no mind Zen’s clear embarrassment or to the roses blooming on his cheeks, clearly finding the whole thing amusing, because he’s just a _jerk_. “I see. So next time, you won’t be smelling my hair the entire time?”

The roses bloom in darker colors.

**_Next time?!_ **

“What?” Zen sputters. “Next time? What the hell do you mean?”

Jumin holds a hand up, amusement still littering his features, making his eyes gleam. “It was a joke.”

Zen deflates. “You sure do have an odd sense of humor,” he says flatly, even though he had already begun to imagine what next time would be. A next time to hold Han Jumin in his arms? Yeah, right. Zen doesn’t want that, he _definitely_ doesn’t want that. “Seriously. That was as funny as the time you asked me to model for your cat business stuff.”

“But, except that suggestion was not a joke.”

“You sure? Because it seemed oh so funny to me,” Zen snaps, but not angrily. With a sigh, he slides down until his butt hits the floor, knees to his chest as he sits against the cabinets. His gaze averts to his side, and he sees Jumin’s long legs looming over him. “And anyway. _You’re_ the one who was making the air feel really tense last night in bed.”

“So you decided to _hold_ me?”

Zen flushes red for what felt like the millionth time today. Seriously, the guy didn’t have any boundaries when it came to having a conversation with people. “God. What is wrong with you. Can we please stop talking about this now? All I did was mention your fucking lavender shampoo.”

Jumin slides down against the fridge until he is sitting with Zen, long legs outstretched instead of the way Zen has them tucked to his chest. “Well, I made no move to mention your green apple scented hair.”

Zen shoots the guy a dirty glare that he wishes could slice him apart. “How did you even know about that? I’m beginning to think _you’re_ the one who was smelling my hair during the night.”

“The aroma is just very strong, and I spotted the bottle while in your bathroom. And besides, if the air was so tense then why didn’t you play some commoner music? The kind with all the weird noises and barely any real instruments? Like something out of an old movie.”

“I can assure you that music was the last thing on my mind. And, so what you’re saying is that pop and indie and whatever genre aside from classical is commoner music to you?” 

Jumin nods slowly. “Yes. I personally find such instruments to be pleasing. By that I mean violin, cello, whatnot. Anything aside from that doesn’t resonate correctly with my ears.”

Zen blinks. Once. Twice. “Dude. You’re so damn _weird_.”

“I _have_ listened to other types of music before,” Jumin says, a bit defensive. He pulls his legs closer to his chest so that they aren’t so very outstretched. “Some songs in particular. The songs from the 90s and occasionally 2000s are what I mean. Sometimes I would hear them playing as I stood in the courtyard of my home. Faint. But the sounds were there.”

Zen can imagine little Jumin standing amongst a large courtyard, clad in a business suit, looking toward the sky as a worn and dusty song from long ago echoes in the wind. The small sight makes him grin a little. “That’s a little better. The sound of old songs suit you.”

“And that is not because I’m older than you, right?”

Zen laughs. He studies the tiled floor as the next words leave his lips. “No. It wasn’t meant to be insulting. I mean ‘cause you’re a bit nostalgic yourself sometimes—only when you’re not being a total jerk.”

Jumin hums. “I see. I recognize I feel a bit nostalgic sometimes. I suppose it ends up bleeding into how I present myself.”

“But it’s like, a good nostalgia. Not the type that makes you seem really old.”

“That’s funny. I’ve never had anyone refer to me like that. You aren’t so nostalgic, at least, I don’t receive that from you. You’re kind of just brash. And you like to call me names.”

“That’s because you’re just a jerk, plain and simple. Also, I’m going to have to introduce you to the songs of today. You can’t live out the rest of your life listening to grandpa music, no matter how nostalgic you are.”

“Grandpa music, you say?”

Zen bites his cheek to stop himself from laughing. “Heh. Yeah.”

Jumin doesn’t seem particularly fazed, but he does return to fiddling with that loose thread emerging from his sweater sleeve. “If… me listening to your music that you enjoy, will that make you happy?”

Zen blinks. Once. Twice. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Because if it makes you happy, I’ll do so, as another sign of my gratitude for last night.”

“There you go again, rambling on and on about your gratitude. Dude, I said to stop with that. You’re fine.”

And then they talk. The world, once again, feels like Han Jumin and Ryu Hyun, this time sitting on the cold kitchen floor next to each other, eyes still heavy with sleep—silver unbrushed hair brushing the floor, and lavender-scented locks splayed unevenly—and they talk. Around this time, at some whatever-o’clock in the morning, Zen happens to learn multiple things about Han Jumin.

The first thing is that he can be a good conversation partner when the conversation actually happens to matter to him. Oftentimes Jumin doesn’t hold conversations due to the fact that he saves his words for business and business only, but with Zen, he loosens up and actually _talks_. Zen doesn’t know why he’s probably the only one (maybe aside from V) to see this side of him, but then again, he’s been seeing a bunch of different sides of the guy recently, and they’re all sides of him that he wants to keep seeing.

The other things are a multitude of different stuff. For one, Zen learns that Jumin almost drowned a long time ago as a child when he was taking a fancy bath (he choked on the bubbles from the bubble bath and almost died). He also learns that Jumin dislikes juice in general, but he prefers apple over orange. And he learns that the corners of his eyes crinkle whilst trying to fight back a small smile, and that his laughter all nearly sounds the same—rich and deep, short but a sound that Zen absorbs every time. There’s a lot to learn about Jumin at whatever-o’clock in the morning sitting on the cold kitchen floor, where he smells a bit like strawberries and pancakes, lavender tucked behind black locks, but still. _Still_.

Zen is busy telling Jumin the story of when he almost fell off the stage during a performance, until he is interrupted by the ringing of Jumin’s phone. Jumin perks up, taking his phone out of the sweatpants pockets, while Zen stops his sentence midway. 

“It’s Assistant Kang,” Jumin observes. “Excuse me while I take this call.”

 _Jaehee_. Zen can already envision her going speechless if Jumin were to tell her where he was currently at.

Zen sits, gaze landing on his hands because he doesn’t know where else to look at, as Jumin puts the phone to his ear. Jumin’s voice tilts gravelly and deep, like it always is, but it’s the same voice that had laughed and told stories; and Zen is appalled at how Jumin can keep that same indifferent voice but twist it so that it was something pleasurable in conversations that withheld different tones. Zen is just appalled at _Jumin_. Well, Zen has been appalled at Jumin before but only for his blatant rudeness and idiocy—but, amazingly enough, he’s appalled for different reasons now.

“Hello, Assistant Kang. I’m a bit late…? Haven’t even noticed, I apologize. Yes. I will be at the office soon. Oh? Oh, I’m at Zen’s apartment… what do you mean? Yes, I am telling the truth... Yes, alright. Give me a few more minutes. Driver Kim has already been contacted and he’s on his way. Goodbye.”

Jumin puts the phone down on the tiled floor with a soft sigh. “She seemed surprised that I’m over at your home.”

Zen gawks at the dude, because did he really find being over at his enemy-but-not-really-enemy’s house _normal?_ “Well, obviously she’s going to be surprised! Even _I’m_ surprised you’re here and acting like you own this place. Who wouldn’t be surprised at Han Jumin over at _my_ house? And anyway, I’m sure you’re pretty disappointed in it since you have your ginormous fuckin’ penthouse—”

Zen stops mid-sentence when Jumin silences him with a small shake of his head. There’s a grin on his face, something wistful and tender. It fits his features perfectly, and it makes Zen look away. “No,” Jumin mutters. “I’m not disappointed.” He turns his head to look at Zen, the same wistful smile warming up the room, making the cold tiled floor burn under Zen’s body. “Your home is comfortable and cozy.”

Zen feels a confused expression twist his face. “But your penthouse has, like, _everything_.”

“My penthouse does,” Jumin agrees. The wistful smile shifts to his eyes so that onyx is shimmering right along with it. “But it has too much of everything, if you’d understand. It’s big. Your home… it smells like green apple and old cinnamon. It’s small and warmer than my own home can ever be. If I’m honest, I prefer it over mine.”

Zen goes speechless for a quick moment, words clinging to his lungs and refusing to get out. Jumin just said he preferred Zen’s semi-underground apartment over his own large billion-story penthouse. “...Dude. You’re talking about my place like you want to live in it.”

Jumin cocks his head to the side. “Odd suggestion. But perhaps I will.”

 _This guy. Seriously._ “Uh, I was actually joking,” Zen says. “I’m just barely tolerating you being here for one night, so let’s not push it.”

“You’re lying. You like me being here,” Jumin says, and it’s obvious he’s teasing but that doesn’t stop the blush that begins to bloom on Zen’s cheeks. Zen glares at the other, swatting at him with one of his hands as Jumin starts to snicker.

“I do _not!_ All you did was wear my clothes and cook breakfast. You’re just taking up space!” 

(And Jumin was only joking around, but Zen hates that he was joking but still managed to tell the truth, even if he didn’t know it. And that is because Zen _did_ enjoy Jumin’s company, as much as he’d hate to admit it, since there just so happens to now be a whole myriad of things he would hate to admit—things that all revolve around a certain black-haired jerk.) 

“And all _you_ do is get annoyed with me,” Jumin points out without a filter to stop him from running his mouth. His words irk Zen, who almost strikes the man on the arm again in a fit of irritation. “What?” Jumin asks when Zen glares at him. “Is that because you’re aware that I’m telling the truth?”

“That’s because you give me reasons to be annoyed with you. You can’t act so innocent.”

“What do you mean? Acting innocent?”

“Like right now!”

Jumin shrugs, but his eyes are still smiling. “Okay. Have I flustered you? I apologize.”

“You have not,” Zen lies through his teeth, scrunching his nose in distaste just to further prove that Jumin’s words have absolutely _no_ effect on him. He turns away from the guy with a sharp hiss of his breath, arms folding at his chest. “Just leave for work already. I’m tired of you ruining the atmosphere of my home.”

“I said I apologize,” Jumin tries again, possibly attempting to have a more sincere ring to his words, unless Zen is just imagining things. “Ah, how about you play some of your commoner music? You had said earlier that if I listened to it, it would make you happy.”

“First of all, I actually _didn’t_ say that, you’re just assuming because you won’t shut up about showing your stupid gratitude towards me. And anyway, it won’t suit your taste at all. I don’t want to hear you complaining about the music I listen to because you’re already irritating enough, if you didn’t know that.”

“Ah. You have already interested me, though. One song.”

Zen huffs a heavy breath; the man is persistently irking in almost everything he does. He just really doesn’t have a clue of when to stop, and Zen is almost entirely sure that the only knowledge Jumin has of handling conversations is when it’s about business. Which isn’t surprising, but he _really_ needs to learn where the line is drawn, because he keeps managing to fluster Zen every single time against his will. 

“One song. And you’re not allowed to make any rude comments about it or I might sock your face in, trust fund kid. I’m serious.”

“Oh, a threat. How terrifying.”

Zen chooses to ignore that comment, unfolding his arms to take out his phone. Jumin’s gaze—burning, intent—is hot and it makes Zen’s heart start to thunder in his chest without any warning signs at all. Clearing his throat, the albino scrolls through one of his music playlists, searching for a song that would impress Jumin (not that he wanted to impress him) and wouldn’t cause the jerk to make unnecessary remarks. 

“Ah—here,” Zen murmurs, thumb pressing on a song. He chose something that’s not so upbeat, because he’s sure that Jumin would comment on fast-paced electronic pop songs, so Zen decided to go with something that’s slow and deep, but still modern and _not_ grandpa music.

The opening notes of the song play. Zen takes the short moment to look at Jumin, whose brows have furrowed slightly as his ears listen to the music coming from Zen’s phone.

_“I just want you close, where you can stay forever—”_

“What is this?” Jumin questions, voice almost drowning out the singing. 

“Alicia Keys. You should know who she is, but you’re, well, _you_ , so I’m not sure if you’ve heard of her,” Zen answers, Alicia’s powerful voice continuing on in the background as he speaks. “She’s really, really great. This song is called _No One_.”

_“You and me together, through the days and nights—”_

“She sings quite loudly,” Jumin observes. “This is not like the classical music I listen to. Though I hear instruments behind her words.”

_“I don’t worry ‘cause everything’s gonna be alright—”_

“Do you like it?” Zen asks, anxiously looking to Jumin for confirmation. Some approval would really make Zen feel proud of himself and serve as an ego boost; Zen, making Jumin listen to modern music and having him enjoy it! That’s definitely something, so Zen waits for a nod of Jumin’s head.

“Sure? I believe I do,” comes the confirmation Zen was anticipating (and if Zen says a silent “Yes!” with a small smile at his lips, no one has to see it).

_“People keep talking, they can say what they like—”_

Zen stands up suddenly, abrupt, because Alicia Keys is playing and it’s beautiful and he feels beautiful right now and so the world feels beautiful, too. His hair is messy and he’s still in his pajamas, but the music, and _Jumin_ , make him feel as if he can push that all aside, something he wouldn’t dare think of doing. But it’s still whatever-o’clock in the morning and his socked feet are warm against the cold tile—and frankly he just feels so warm right now entirely. It spreads to his fingertips and runs in his veins and makes him tingle, tingle, _tingle_.

“What are you doing?” Jumin asks.

Zen sways his hips with the music, almost sliding on the floor as he steps along with the beat. “Dancing. What do you think?”

“Don’t. It looks weird.”

Zen chuckles, the rolling of his hips not ceasing as he tries to glide across the tiled kitchen flooring. He’s sure that he probably looks really stupid, but he can’t bring himself to care. “When a song is good and your body moves with it, you don’t stop it,” Zen says, grinning at Jumin’s dumbfounded expression. “Something the matter, trust fund kid?”

_“No one, no one, no one—”_

Jumin doesn’t reply and for some reason Zen takes it as encouragement, only twirling and swaying even more with the music; or maybe it’s because Jumin’s eyes are watching Zen like he’s the only person in the world. And maybe, just maybe... at the moment, he is. 

Zen doesn’t stop himself from reaching down and grabbing Jumin’s hand in his own. The man’s face goes pale, the only color sporting itself being the subtle pink painting itself on the apples of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the tips of his ears. “What are you—” Jumin begins to ask, stopping in the middle of his sentence when Zen starts hauling him to his feet.

“You’re not allowed to just _watch_ me,” Zen says, throwing in a small glare for extra measure. “Now, come on.” 

Zen doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore, but he’s indulged himself enough recently so that this doesn’t seem out of the ordinary for them. It’s just another thing to tack onto the list of things he has done with Han Jumin: _now_ , dancing with him in the morning in their pajamas, within the swirling scent of strawberries and pancakes.

_“No one, no one, no one—”_

“I’m quite bad at dancing,” Jumin admits, trying to stay still with Zen’s hands in his and urging him to move with the music. “So I don’t think I should do this.”

“I’m no dancer myself,” Zen says as he gently tugs Jumin closer to his own body. “But I’ve wooed enough ladies in my lifetime so that I know the basics. What about you? You’re kinda just standing there.”

“I took lessons for a bit as a child but I have never had the time to dance with a person,” Jumin mutters, baby pink blush still adorning his cheekbones. “Women have never been on my agenda. You know this. Therefore I never truly danced with one.”

“So I’ll have to do all the work, don’t I?” Zen sighs in fake exasperation. “Firstly, relax, you’re stiff and you can’t dance while you’re standing like a stick. Just… step with me. Step with the beat. You’ll get the hang of it if you listen to the music.”

_“—can get in the way of what I feel for you.”_

Zen and Jumin, sworn enemies, swaying along to Alicia Keys on cold kitchen flooring in a small semi-underground apartment. It’s absurd, but Zen feels so terrifyingly okay with this that it almost, but not quite, scares him. It’s just them, _dancing_ —some traces of sunlight spill onto Jumin’s face, giving pink blush a yellow undertone, the same faint yellow reflecting in onyx eyes and soaking into his skin, _radiant_. It makes Zen forget what he wants to say.

So he doesn’t say anything. Not that there’s anything that really needs to be said. They just continue to dance, clad in soft pajamas as their socks glide against the kitchen floor.

_“You, you…”_

“You just stepped on my foot,” Zen says with a breathy chuckle, Jumin shrugging in reply. “Really though, you’re not too bad at this for someone who claims to have never slow danced with anyone before.”

“Thanks. I was afraid I’m just terribly bad at this.”

“I guess your dancing lessons as a child paid off,” Zen teases, not missing the small narrowing of Jumin’s eyes at his words. “You’re going to get all the ladies in no time if I continue to teach you like this.”

“I don’t want ladies to dance with,” Jumin murmurs. “I don’t need them. I’m fine dancing with just you.”

_Oh._

Jumin seems unaffected so Zen takes it that the guy really isn’t paying attention to the words that come out of his own mouth. Zen on the other hand flushes red again, flustered, realizing once again that the dude really lacked a goddamn filter when it came to what he said. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I like this,” Jumin shrugs, “Even if I do happen to step on your feet every once in a while.”

They sway without words for a couple of moments, the only tangible sound being the song that is still blasting from Zen’s phone. Jumin’s hand is too soft in Zen’s own, lanky limbs moving ungracefully yet it makes Zen want to smile so hard; he would never, ever, _ever_ in his lifetime admit to enjoying dancing with Han Jumin in the kitchen, so this is yet another secret to be sealed within zipped lips, but he knows that it’s okay. Just like everything else, this is okay. This is a moment for them, for Zen and Jumin and for them alone, and that’s absolutely _enough_.

_“When the rain is pouring down, and my heart is hurting—”_

“Do you regret it?” Zen blurts without thinking. He blinks when Jumin stares back in mere confusion. “This. Right now. Last night. Everything. Do you regret any of it?”

_“You will always be around, this I know for certain—”_

Jumin hums softly. For a quick beat he sends a small squeeze to Zen’s hand; his fingers tingle from where they’re interlaced with the other’s. “No,” he finally answers. “There’s a lot for me to think about. A lot that happened, definitely. But I don’t regret anything that happened with you, Hyun. I haven’t felt like this before, and I don’t even know what it is that I’m feeling, but I don’t regret it. I don’t want to.”

“Good,” Zen says. _Because I don’t either._

And so they dance for a bit longer, Alicia Keys filling the empty space of the kitchen, the sunlight intensifying and saturating Jumin’s features in a pretty way that makes Zen’s heart want to burst for some odd reason. Zen is a 20-something year old in a 20-something year, but time has stopped, the only discernible things being the honey he swears is dripping from Jumin’s eyelashes and the sugar dusted on his lips.

“Is this weird?” Zen question. He himself doesn't have the gusto to think much of the moment (he might just scream about it later). He doesn’t know how to read Jumin when the other is so stoic with his own expressions. However, Jumin only nods once in return, one corner of his lips tilting up just the slightest bit. 

“Of course this is weird. But it’s—”

“—The good kind,” Zen finishes for him, observing the way Jumin blinks in mild surprise at the other having finished his sentence with accuracy. “Yeah. I never thought I’d find myself in a situation like this one.”

“Yes. This is odd.”

“Everything is odd when it comes to you, trust fund jerk.”

“The good kind of odd,” Jumin says as Zen leads him into a small half-twirl on the kitchen floor, socked feet slipping against frigid tile.

Zen nods. “The best kind.”

_“No one, no one, no one...”_

After a moment that feels like a forever, the song ends, just as nearly all things tend to do in life. The song ends but their moment lasts, even as they pull away from each other, interlocked fingers gradually slipping apart, the body warmth still abiding with no means to stop its tingle on their fingertips anytime soon. The kitchen is warm now, sunlight filtering through a small window, persisting in its mission to light up Jumin’s face in the liveliest way possible. It renders Zen speechless even though he is someone who has a lot to say, especially to Han Jumin, especially _about_ Han Jumin.

But now, the song has ended and all Zen can manage to do is look at Jumin, who turns his head toward the direction of the sunlight, his features now dripping with the glow—yes, he’s absolutely glowing, a startling change from last night where he had been flickering terribly, but this is something Zen can accept. He wants Jumin to stand with his composure that suits him so well, not like yesterday. Never like yesterday.

“...You’re a good dancer,” Jumin says. “Entertaining to dance with.”

Zen makes a small noise of satisfaction, forcing himself to rip his gaze from Jumin because, _fuck_ , he’s staring again. “Good,” he says. “I’d have killed you if you said that I wasn’t.”

“The song you had pickled was enjoyable as well. I appreciate your selection.”

Zen scoffs, “So… the commoner music is good, then?” he says, leaning toward Jumin with a small smirk playing on his lips. “You admit it? You like Alicia Keys? You like to dance with me to her music? You like my ‘commoner’ music in general?”

Jumin blinks at the sudden onslaught of questions. “You just asked an unnecessary amount of questions. If commoner music is as enjoyable as this one song, then I’d gladly dance with you to it again.”

 _There he goes, running his mouth again with no filter!_ “Watch what you say, you’re making it weird,” Zen utters, because he really doesn’t want to end up going all red again since Jumin has that stupid effect on him. “And anyways, this was a one-time thing! It was just a dancing mood!”

“If you insist,” Jumin says, obviously skeptical. 

Zen _tsks_. “A-And even if you’re okay at dancing, that doesn’t mean I wanna do it with you all the time. You’re really quite full of yourself, you know that?”

“I actually didn’t say anything about dancing with you all the time,” Jumin says, smirking a tad when he notices the way Zen’s eyes widen comically. “ _You_ are the one who brought that up, so _you_ are the one who is thinking about it. Isn’t that funny?”

Zen practically growls at Jumin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Oh. Have I flustered you again?”

“Oh my fucking— _stop saying that!_ ”

Jumin starts to laugh again, small and rich as always, a rumble in his chest that’s gone quicker than it came. Zen hadn’t even heard the guy laugh before everything that happened last night, but yet, here he is; in front of Zen, laughing freely, something akin to a long-forgotten song. It almost feels like a blessing to be able to hear. Even when he stops, the noise remains, ringing in Zen’s ears and staying to continue its slow spread of warmth through his veins. It suddenly feels hot, and Zen knows that it’s not just the sunlight.

Jumin’s phone all of a sudden makes a tiny _ping_ noise, signaling a notification. Jumin takes it out of the sweatpants pocket, eyes quickly looking at the screen before he gives a small sigh.

“It’s Driver Kim. He’s outside,” Jumin says as he slips the cell phone back into his pocket. 

_Oh_. “So does this mean that you have to go?” Zen slowly says, the words feeling like sandpaper in his throat. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, which now feels dry. “You have to leave?”

Jumin looks to the albino, stoic expression remaining, but there’s a small crack in it that leaks benignity. It drips and seeps into the kitchen tile and leaves Zen feeling warmer than he already is. “Yes, I suppose I do,” he says, but there’s something behind his tone. Something like disappointment. 

“Oh.”

Zen may have trouble reading Jumin, but even while his eyes are cloudy gray, the albino can always seem to detect what he’s feeling just by looking inside of them. And upon further observation, Zen finds out that he wasn’t wrong—there’s disappointment all dull in Jumin’s eyes, and it makes a lump form in Zen’s own throat, because he’s disappointed too.

“I apologize,” Jumin mumbles, before his voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “If I am honest, I don’t want to leave.”

Zen doesn’t _want_ him to leave. Which is funny, because for as long as he’s known the jerk he couldn’t stand being in a six-foot radius of him; but now, this particular morning after one particular night, Zen can come to realize that the last thing he wants is for Jumin to go. For Jumin to leave. Not when the apartment has twisted itself so welcomingly so that Jumin’s presence feels completely normal and a part of the place. Cozy. Familiar.

(Because, Zen wants there to be more mornings like this. Mornings where he can lose himself to Alicia Keys in his socks and loose pajamas, hands intertwined with Jumin’s as they sway to the beat, sunlight dancing along with them so delicately that it leaves him in awe.)

Jumin walks over to the door where his shoes lie. He bends down to put them on and Zen is left standing in the same spot, watching Jumin, silently longing for the boy to somehow find a way to stay, even if it feels selfish for wanting such a thing. It feels like taboo to desire such a thing, because he’s supposed to hate Jumin, but he doesn’t. _Can’t_ —not anymore.

It’s only when Jumin looks back at Zen does the albino make a move to walk. He joins Jumin in front of the door, and it feels like last night all over again, where they had first entered the house. Who would’ve thought that in the short amount of time Jumin spent here, he would make his presence like a striking thunderbolt, sudden and unexpected, but leaving consequences behind? Consequences like late-night snuggles, consequences like strawberries and pancakes, consequences like slow dancing in a kitchen, consequences like Zen wanting him to just _stay_.

“Hey,” Zen says. He looks at Jumin in the eye. “You. Come visit once in a while, okay?”

Jumin is quiet, but then he grins, something so glowy and soft and tender that it renders Zen dumbstruck. “If you’d like. I enjoy it here, anyway. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

Zen expects the man to turn and exit and leave him feeling empty, but instead—

He’s caught off-guard when Jumin steps forward and wraps his arms around the younger.

Zen’s hands reflexively come up to hug Jumin back. This hug isn’t one of desperation and shattering like the one from last night, nor is it in the rain. This is a hug in pure sunlight, beams of it tiptoeing across their skin, signaling a new bright day. This hug is different from yesterday’s, but Zen revels in it all the same; soaking in the body heat from the other, tucking his face into his shoulder. Breathes.

“I know you’re tired of hearing this, but thank you, Zen. Thank you.”

Zen aost chokes up, _almost_. “Yeah, you idiot,” he mumbles, words muffled from where his face is pressed into Jumin’s shoulder. The material of the baby blue sweater is soft and tickles his nose. “Of course. Now stop thanking me. I still don’t like you at all, y’know.”

“Sure,” Jumin says, humoring Zen as he pulls back from the hug, the lack of skinship immediately leaving the younger feeling cold even in the sunlight that rests on their faces. “Sure you do.”

Then he turns, a hand on the doorknob. 

_“Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”_

“Goodbye,” Jumin says, looking over his shoulder as he opens the front door. “I may call you later just to check in. Rest up. Eat well. Do your morning routine, since you haven’t done it yet.”

Zen laughs, in the way that only Jumin has been managing to do lately. “Yeah, you jerk. I will. Bye.”

And then Jumin is out the door, the last traces of a baby blue sweatshirt standing out bright in Zen’ field of vision, before Jumin shuts the door softly behind him. And then the apartment is left feeling empty again.

Though the place itself is still undeniably warm, its atmosphere is slightly drearier now that Jumin left. almost like it felt complete with him there—though Zen is probably just reaching. He has to do his morning routine, and he has to get ready and check his schedule, because Jumin had been so distracting that he hadn’t done any of that.

“Seriously…” Zen grumbles under his breath as he makes his way to the bedroom, passing the kitchen on the way there (his cheeks go red just thinking about the way they had danced together, before he pats at his face in anger). 

Now, Zen finds Jumin annoying, more than almost anything else in the world. But lately, the guy has been forcing Zen to think, and rethink, and wonder. He would’ve never imagined his sworn enemy giving his life more color just overnight, but then again, everything about Han Jumin is just odd. 

Like they said, though—it’s the good kind of odd. The best kind of odd. The amazing kind.

(And now, Zen realizes as he’s washing his face, he has something to look forward to today. A call from Jumin, “just to check in.” And thinking of it _doesn’t_ make Zen all warm and bubbly inside. No, no, it definitely, totally, 100% _doesn’t_.)

**Author's Note:**

> you made it yayyy!!
> 
> the next fic will definitely be longer and full of pining because they have to get more aware of their feelings,, they're two oblivious little shits :,) zen is a little tsundere and jumin is just. himself. and pays no mind to what he feels
> 
> kudos + comments always always always appreciated!!
> 
> (uhh expect more action and,,, yes pining!!,, in the next fic)
> 
> (if you have any requests for a one shot or a scene PLEASE leave it!)


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